


The Coming of the Wolf

by aTasteofCaramell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Chronic Illness, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Lyall Lupin Needs a Hug, Pre-Series, Remus Lupin Needs a Hug, Young Remus Lupin, everybody needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 19:37:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14921588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aTasteofCaramell/pseuds/aTasteofCaramell
Summary: How do you explain to your 5-year-old son that he’s going to turn into a monster in seven days because Daddy made the werewolf mad?





	The Coming of the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> For those who would like an HP lore refresher: Remus was bitten by Fenrir Greyback after Remus's father, Lyall Lupin, insulted werewolves by saying that "they deserve nothing less than death."

Three weeks until the next full moon.

“He’s such a dear, sweet thing.”

That’s all anybody would ever say.

“Oh, yes, we all love Remus.”

Why was everyone pretending to not understand what had happened?

 “I was saying to Merelda, earlier, that I wish I could just take him home and keep him!”

“Do you?” Lyall asked, quietly. The Healer stopped mid-sentence and looked at him wide-eyed.

“Oh—well—” she went red. “Just…I meant…you know,” she mumbled, bustling off hurriedly.

Lyall pushed open the door of the Dai Llewellyn Ward. Remus’s bed was immediately evident—partially because of the large, colorful enchanted paper cranes whirling around overtop of it, the large stacks of sweets spread out across his bedspread, and the large bright purple stuffed Chimaera on the table beside him—but mainly because he was chatting animatedly with Hope and two more Medi-Witches standing around his bed. His head turned at the sound of the door open.

“Hi Daddy!” He said happily, pulling a mouse pop out of his mouth, and started to get out of bed.

“Oh, no you don’t,” said one Medi-witch brightly, and the other excused herself. “Strict bed rest for now, you know, I’ve told five times today if I’ve told you once.”

“It doesn’t even hurt anymore,” Remus complained, but he pulled his leg back up onto the mattress. Thin bandages were wrapped around his thin ankle and calf. Lyall, for a moment, found himself staring at them—hit with the nauseating memory of entering his son’s room, seeing the beast dragging Remus out from under his bed, gripping that leg in its jaws while Remus flailed for anything to hold on to, screaming—

Hope was looking at him. He crossed the room and asked a silent question. She shook her head; no news yet. “Hello, Remy,” he said, forcing a façade of cheerfulness, rumpling his son’s hair. “Been good today?”

“He’s better behaved than most of my adult patients,” said the Medi-witch.

Lyall forced a smile, rubbing Remus’s shoulder. “Glad to hear it.”

“It’s easy,” said Remus with a shrug. He put the mouse pop back in his mouth, grinning at the Medi-witch while she bustled about the bed, consulting his chart, smoothing his bedspread, and batting away a paper crane. “Thersh relly nice ear,” he said around the mouse pop. He pointed to the candy on the bed. “Lookit all the presents they give me.”

Lyall’s stomach clenched, and was thankful that his son wasn’t looking at him. He knew exactly why the Healers were showering Remus with candy and items from the hospital gift shop, and it wasn’t because he was being good. This was the sort of affection that strangers showed to dying children.

 _He’s not dying,_ Lyall reminded himself, though it had sounded like it a few nights ago. He shivered at the memory. Waking up in the night to bloodcurdling shrieks, crashes, and then— _“DADDY! DADDY!”_ over and over, accompanied with snarls. Lyall had never moved so fast in his life, and yet had never felt he was moving so slow. If only he’d moved a little faster…

He couldn’t even credit himself with saving Remus’s life. If Remus hadn’t had the presence of mind to take refuge under the bed, forcing the werewolf to waste time forcing itself in after him, he would be dead. 

Hope leaned forward with a shake of her head. “We’re going to have to talk about your sweet tooth, Remus. It’s getting out of hand.”

“Noisnot,” Remus protested, cheek bulging. He swallowed and pulled the (considerably smaller) mouse pop back out, glancing up at Lyall. “When can I go home? I’m bored.”

“Soon,” Lyall spoke around the lump in his throat. He rumpled Remus’s hair again. “Soon.”

*

Two weeks and four days until the next full moon. Lyall came home in the afternoon, shoving the door open. “Hope. Hope!”

She came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel as he shut the door behind him. “What are you doing here, I thought you had a meeting—”

“Canceled,” said Lyall. “I’ve canceled everything. Just heard today, that specialist—the Russian—she’s at a conference, just across the way in Spain. I’ve called, set up an appointment, took me all morning, but we have to leave now to make it.”

Hope stared at him with wide eyes, hands frozen in the towel. Lyall but his hands on her shoulders, kissed her forehead. “It’ll be all right. It’ll be fine.”

“Do you think…” Hope glanced up the stairs, towards Remus’s bedroom. “Could she really…”

“Let’s just go see, all right?” Lyall squeezed her shoulders. “She’ll know something. She has to.”

Hope let out her breath, shaky and soft. “Lyall…”

“This isn’t happening to us,” said Lyall. “Not without a fight it isn’t. We’re fighting it.”

*

Two weeks and three days until the next full moon.

“I’m sorry,” said Anichka Ivanov. “but there’s nothing I can do. The bite is—”

“Wait,” said Lyall. He stood up, took Remus’s hand as the boy finished putting his socks and shoes back on. “Remus will wait with your assistant, if that’s all right.” 

Ivanov raised her eyebrows, but nodded. Lyall led Remus outside, then returned, shutting the door tight behind him and retaking his seat. Hope hadn’t moved, her fingers tight on her handbag.

Ivanov put her glasses back on. Looked Lyall in the eyes. “You have not told him.” It wasn’t a question.

“No need to,” said Lyall. “Not yet. There’s still time.”

“Time for what?” said Ivanov.

“For something. Anything. To stop it. You must know of something. We’ll try anything. _Anything_.” Lyall leaned forward. “This is your research, Miss Ivanov, your area of expertise, the world expert—”

“I know what I am, Mr. Lupin,” said Ivanov. Her voice went soft, but firm. “And you must know that your son is now a lycanthrope.” Hope let out a gasping sob. “There is nothing I can do to change that. It is cruel to yourself and your son to continue to deny it.”

Lyall gripped Hope’s shoulder, leaned forward further. “I’m not denying anything, Miss Ivanov, I’m asking you to use your expertise to _help_ us. There must be a way to—we’re not giving up!”

“Mr. Lupin, you are asking for solutions that do not exist,” said Ivanov. She sighed, removed her glasses, rubbed her eyes. “There is no cure. There are no leads to a cure. There are no possible pathways open to us at this point in time. If you want experimental treatment, I have none. You are wasting your time.”

“That isn’t possible,”  said Lyall, his voice rising. “How can you do research, but know _nothing_?”

“Mr. Lupin—”

“This is _my son_ ,” Lyall cried. “I am not wasting time by trying to find a cure! What exactly are _you_ wasting your time doing if not finding a cure?" 

“My research is not a waste of time, Mr. Lupin.”

“These are people!” Lyall raged. “This is my son, a living breathing person, and you aren’t going to try to help him?”

“Mr. Lupin!” Ivanov raised her voice. “I am the world expert on lycanthropy. I am perfectly aware that they are people. And I am trying to help your son, but you are not listening to me.”

Hope’s hand was tight on his, even as she wept silently. Lyall quieted.

“That’s better,”  said Ivanov. “I cannot stop your son’s transformations. You cannot stop your son’s transformations. No-one can. But you can prepare him. I have worked with many lycanthropes; many werewolves. I have researched their development from childhood to adulthood. I know what to expect during transformations. You would do well to listen to me. You would do well to tell your son. You would do well to prepare him for the pain that is coming.”

Hope convulsed slightly. Lyall felt as though the room was fading from his vision, as though his hearing was getting cloudy though he could still hear Ivanov clearly.

“It will be painful,” she was saying. “Intensely so. And your son will lose himself. The mind of the wolf will come to him, pack his own mind away somewhere, where it will sleep. He will try to bite you and anyone else in range. Many parents—it is considered wisest by many to commit the victims to caretakers who are experienced in this—”

“We aren’t doing that,” said Lyall immediately. His voice felt muffled and far away. “We aren’t sending him away from us, to be locked up in some sort of madhouse.”

Ivanov was silent for a moment. “I cannot tell you what is best,” she said at last. “because I do not know. If you keep him you must be prepared. You must bind him as tightly as you can. He will be strong, much stronger than he is now. He will be a wild and intelligent animal, bent on killing, driven mad by the smell of humans. If he cannot get to humans, he will turn on himself. You must keep him restrained.”

Nausea rolled in Lyall’s stomach. Ivanov went on. “He will be ostracized, as will you. That is the way of the life of a werewolf. As he gets older, his strength will multiply. You will not be able to keep him safe forever. You must try to find a solution before then. Find a remote cabin. Buy it. Let him loose in mountains with no nearby villages.”

“Will he remember?” Hope voice was faint, the softest of whispers. “Being—trying to—will he remember?”

“He will remember some of it,” said Ivanov. “It depends on the person. It depends on their maturity. It depends on their strength of will and how much they fight the mind of the wolf.”

Hope swallowed. “Will he remember the pain?”

“Yes,” said Ivanov. “The body of the wolf comes before the mind. He will remember the pain of the transformation.” She leaned forward, put a hand on Hope’s knee. “It is hard,” she said quietly. “but this is why you must tell him before it happens. The shock of being unprepared—it never ends well.”

*

One week and one day before the next full moon.

Lyall was reading every book, every magazine, everything he could get his hands on. Sleepless nights, long days. He hadn’t returned to work.

“Lyall,” Hope pleaded. “Please. I can’t do this anymore.”

He couldn’t give up. He couldn’t. He lit another candle. There had to be something. There had to be a way.

Her hands shook as she iced the cake for tomorrow. Tears were on her face as she wrote the words, _Happy Birthday Remus!_ “We have to tell him.”

But how?

How could he tell him?

How could he explain to his 6-year-old son minus one day, his only son, his baby boy…how could he explain to Remus that that he was going to turn into a monster in seven days because Daddy made the werewolf mad?

*

They had cake. They had laughter. They went to the park; Remus ran, arms spread as if about to fly. The tiny limp was gone; the only remains of the bite were thin, nearly invisible scars. Remus was running barefoot and you wouldn’t even notice them if you didn’t know where to look.

“Lyall,” said Hope, her arms hugging herself, watching their son run.

“I’ll tell him,” said Lyall. “Just not today. It’s his birthday, Hope. Let him have his birthday.”

“We should have told him before.” Hope buried her face in her hands. “Now, he’ll only have a few days—is that long enough—to prepare—how can we—”

Lyall took her in his arms, whispered in her ear. “Don’t cry now, Hope. If Remus sees—”

Her breath shuddered, but no tears wet his shoulder.  

“Mummy…” Lyall let go; they both turned. Remus stood there, his face pale, his skin suddenly clammy under the sun. “Mummy, I don’t feel good.”

Hope knelt, took his hands, felt his forehead. “You’re all cold, Remus. What happened?”

“I don’t know, I just…” Remus swayed on his feet, then fainted dead away.

They took him to Mungo’s.

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” the Healer explained in a soft voice while Remus slept. “I mean, well…it’s the lycanthropy. They can exhibit certain symptoms in the preceding week, as the moon waxes. They tend to be more sensitive to it when they’re…when they’ve…when the bite is recent.”

Lyall wept in the dark and quiet hall, clinging to Hope in the middle of the night while Remus slept. “It’s my fault,” he sobbed. “It’s all my fault, if I hadn’t—I shouldn’t have— _it’s my fault…_ ”

*

Six days until the next full moon. They were home, and they were quiet. Remus wasn’t eating.

“Still feel ill, sweetheart?” Hope asked, feeling his face as he sat bundled on the couch. Lyall sat looking at the pair of them, trying and failing to find the words.

“No,” said Remus, looking at the ground. He looked terribly sad.

“What’s wrong?” Hope asked. Tears trembled in his eyes. Hope sat down next to him, gathered him in her arms. “Sweetheart, tell me.”

Remus clung to her, whispered. “I love you, Mummy.”

Hope hugged him tight. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

Remus whispered, “When do I have to leave?”

Lyall’s heart stuttered in his chest. Hope gasped. “What on—where did—never, Remus, you don’t have to leave us ever.”

“But I have to,” said Remus. “I don’t want to bite you.”

The entire world seemed to stop. The room seemed to rotate. Again, Lyall felt his vision closing in. His breath was trapped in his chest.

“Sweetheart?” said Hope.

“I’m a werewolf, aren’t I?” said Remus, and then he burst into tears.

*

Three days until the next full moon.

It had taken the past three to convince Remus that they weren’t going to send him away. And tonight the moon shone brightly in the sky, and Remus was feverish—almost delirious—mumbling about how the moonlight burned him up.

Lyall paced the room, the thick curtains drawn, blocking out the light, holding his baby boy limp against his shoulder like a newborn rather than the six-year-old that he was. Hope was sleeping in the next room, exhausted. Lyall had shadows under his eyes as well. Every sinew in his body felt pulled tight and ready to break. They had prepared the cellar the past few days, finally forcing themselves to face the truth—Remus was going to turn, and they couldn’t stop it.

Couldn’t stop it.

Remus was heavy. Lyall didn’t put him down. Remus mumbled something incoherently; his breath was hot against the skin of Lyall’s neck.

He shuddered. Hot tears on his face.

_This is my fault._

He choked on a sob.

_I’m sorry, Remy. I’m so sorry._

A soft touch, a small hand against his face. Remus sat up in his arms. Whispered, “It’s okay, Daddy.”

*

One hour until the next full moon.

They were in the cellar, sitting on the floor. Hope held Remus tight in her arms. He leaned against her shoulder, eyes closed, seemingly dozing. Lyall sat next to them, his arms around Hope. Waiting.

They had had one month. This last hour was an eternity and an instant.

Every time Remus stirred Lyall stiffened, his throat went tight, his fingers gripped Hope. But the minutes ticked by. And the moon rose.

Then Remus sat up, his face turned upwards towards the sky, though he couldn’t see it through the cellar ceiling. “It’s coming,” he said, the whites of his eyes reflecting the light, his skin pale and suddenly gaunt, his lips dry and slack with fear.

Lyall pulled him away from Hope. Sat with his arms looped through each of Remus’s, pulling them gently back. Restrained. Hope knelt in front, ready to take his ankles, took Remus’s face in her hands.

“We’re right here, Sweetheart,” she said. “We’re right here. You’ll be back soon enough, and we’ll be here the entire time.”

“I’m not leaving,” said Remus. “I don’t care if the wolf is coming. I’m staying and I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

“No, of course you’re not,” said Lyall. He kissed the crown of his son’s head. Hope kissed her son’s forehead.

Then the wolf came.


End file.
